


Dennis Reynolds Renews His License

by ameliabuckle



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Blood, Handsome Imaginary Surgeon, Jerkin It In The DMV, Medical, Medical Kink, Organ Procurement, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 01:52:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14509884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliabuckle/pseuds/ameliabuckle
Summary: "Organ Donor Designation", the top declares. He rolls his eyes, staring contemptuously at the crowd lingering around the room. None of them, certainly, were worthy of having any part of himself inside them. He can't imagine anyone is. When the temple collapses, you don’t use the stone to patch holes in the fucking gas station. Or whatever.





	Dennis Reynolds Renews His License

**Author's Note:**

> x - Today at 6:33 PM  
> a) is dennis an organ donor b) if so did checking those boxes make him horny  
> y - Today at 6:35 PM  
> absolutely.  
> z - Today at 6:35 PM  
> dennis would only be an organ donor so he could be horny abt it

Even at his very best, Dennis Reynolds is not a patient man. Right now, the combination headaches of being in close proximity with this dense a cross section of the regular fucking public and his flask finding itself empty half-way through the line is making him something close to downright testy. He raises his license to his face several times, as if looking at it once more will change the expiry date to anything other than today’s. He already breaks too many laws on the road to risk it, so he waits. And he waits. And he waits.

Finally, the clerk in front of him has her eyes settled blatantly on the vein throbbing in his forehead as she talks in voice somehow both monotonous and grating. She’s explaining, in painstaking detail, the forms that remain trapped under the drumming of her brightly coloured nails. By the time he manages to pry them out from under her strip mall manicure and escape to the side to fill them in, he’s nearly vibrating. He knows her type— too broken by her own boredom to be worth trying to get a reaction out of, they’re fucking rampant in this sort of place— so he channels his rage into his steps as he stomps over to the side to fill out the paperwork.

He rubs his eyes for moment, drags his hand down his face, then starts going quickly over everything. God, the monotony of it all. The people, their faces, the booths, the little boxes, the fonts, the numbers. He feels heat building again and tries to focus on his handwriting to calm down.

Eventually, after decades, he reaches the final page. It’s obviously been printed separately and stapled on by one of the drones. "Organ Donor Designation”, the top declares. He rolls his eyes, staring contemptuously at the crowd lingering around the room. None of them, certainly, were worthy of having any part of himself inside them. He can't imagine anyone is. When the temple collapses, you don’t use the stone to patch holes in the fucking gas station. Or whatever. He sighs, going over everything one more time, narrowing his eyes when he hits that last page again. It's insulting to begin with, never mind the context. Surely they’d have more luck with this sort of thing if you didn’t fill it out surrounded by examples of the useless sort of lives you’d be theoretically enabling by letting them... use... your body.

_ Hm.  _ His breath hitches as an image comes to him, fully-formed and searingly bright: a metal table in a white room, gleaming sharply— his pale, perfectly smooth skin— a strategically placed sheet across his thighs— the young man in a lab coat standing beside him— his chest, still and unmoving and open. The muscles in his face lock, keeping him staring neutrally down at the form. His eyes drift across the different boxes to check and he shifts slightly on his feet, humming out a sigh before looking up.

"This pen is out of ink," he says to the clerk. She exhales in frustration at being addressed, her long nails clacking against the keyboard, and gestures vaguely with her head at a pile of pens down the desk. He waves at her sarcastically in thanks, turns toward the pens, and walks past them into the single stall bathroom. He locks and unlocks the door a couple of times before deciding to keep it locked.

He faces the mirror, turning his head slowly to let his eyes rake along the line of his own jaw. Stares at the pulse beating in his neck— thinks about the things it runs through in the midnight of his body.  _ Shit _ . He can feel the rhythm of it in his wrists, in his belly, in the veins under his tongue as it darts out between his lips. He meets his own eyes, one finger firmly tracing a line up the middle of his torso. They have to crack your ribs to get to all that shit, he imagines. He raps a knuckle against his collarbone, exhaling sharply at the sound. They have to move quickly, after all. Even skin has to be harvested and stored within the day.  _ Fuck _ . The shit inside your bones, too. Bodies without moving blood depreciate like a car you’re driving off the lot for the first time.

He drags his thumb back down the line of his chest, stopping to press the heel of his palm into the cavity over his lungs. He breathes deeply, down into his diaphragm, letting his eyes drift shut to better feel the rise and fall. One of his fingers brushes against his nipple with the movement and he feels in his hand the gentle wave of his air intake stutter. He does it again, more deliberately now, sliding his hand to the left, fingers spread wide over his breast. His heart thumps wildly against it. It would still be doing something like that when they took it out.  _ Fuck. Okay. Fuck. _ His other hand fumbles quickly with his zipper as he keeps massaging the area over his heart, mouth falling open as his pinky brushes with more regularity against his nipple. They take it out and throw it on ice, like fucking— like cheap whisky. He imagines the sound of it something like a drunk falling into a snowbank on a real cold night. Meat and the crackle of frozen things suddenly heated up. The way the blood from a broken nose steams as it pools itself across the street.

"Fuck," he realises too late he’s said out loud. He thinks about the way the waves from his mouth hit those small bones in of his ear— about all the small mechanical things ticking hidden inside of him, powering and thrusting forward the perfect machine he lives in.  _ Thrusting _ . He pushes into his hand now, letting himself make and imagine other small sounds. The hissing of the oxygen his body is hooked up to, keeping the cells from joining his brain. The exaggerated  _ sssssh _ of the scalpel—  _ Would it be a, it doesn’t matter, fuck _ — dragging further toward his pelvis. The echoing of his still-beating heart as the young man in the lab coat puts his hands around it, awe and reverence crossing over his face. How he holds it like it’s precious. It is.  _ I am _ .

Dennis Reynolds has been splayed out in a hundred different ways, but never quite like this, with butterfly clips holding him open, all of his softest and most intimate parts exposed. Roadkill on the side of the fucking highway. Catching a flash of the wolf’s eyes through the trees as he looks up at you, deer guts in his mouth, blood like oil streaked back across his muzzle.  _ Focus, you fuck _ . The doctor’s hands probing more deeply inside of him than anyone ever has before. He moans for real now, speeding up his hand until it matches the pace of his pulse, the other moving up to press firmly against the places it thrums most strongly in his neck, feeling it echo through his forefinger and thumb. He can almost imagine his heart revving up until it explodes out of his chest and he would catch it in the hand still working feverishly in the area and he would hold it like that as it continued to spurt blood down his forearm and all over the horrible government green of the sink in a gush at first spraying across the mirror like a slashed throat in an action movie but then dripping  _ splp splp splp _ and his cum splatters across that spot on the counter, both hands squeezing hard.

He stands there for a couple more minutes, letting his breathing become the approximation of something normal, relishing the feeling of his blood still screaming through his veins. Even the headache is sort of beautiful, now that he thinks about the lump of grey matter underneath the pounding. Oh, man, he never even got to anyone opening up his skull.  _ Later _ .

He walks back out into the main room. If anyone heard him, they don't treat him any differently for it. Morons. Or cowards. Both. He grabs a pen in an exaggerated manner, waving it at the clerk, who stares at him like it would physically hurt her to acknowledge his sentience. With a flourish and a grin, he signs the donation consent form and begins to slide it over to her.

"I'm an altruist," he confides, leaning on the counter. "I can't think of something that fulfills me more than someone benefiting from my tragedy." She smacks her lips like she has gum to pop, but there isn't any.

"Sir, I'm sorry,"  _ You are not. You bitch. You government bitch. _ "but you lost your place in the queue. Please go to the back of the line and someone will assist you as soon as they are available."

"You government bitch," he says out loud, almost conversationally. She slides her eyes past him smoothly.

"Next."

**Author's Note:**

> what a funny guy. remember to sign your donor cards & speak with your loved ones about your plans for your bodies after you die. give blood if you can and, you know, hail satan.


End file.
